


In Crisis

by Blue_Sunshine



Series: The Desert Storm [5]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Legends - All Media Types, Star Wars Original Trilogy, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy
Genre: Galactic Republic, Jedi Culture, Master & Padawan Relationship(s), Natural Disasters, Politics, Rescue Missions, initiates - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-01
Updated: 2019-04-03
Packaged: 2019-12-27 02:27:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 10,281
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18294998
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blue_Sunshine/pseuds/Blue_Sunshine
Summary: It is often easier to do for others what one cannot do for themselves.





	1. Chapter 1

Ben steps into his quarters and startles at the sight of togruta sitting on the sofa, sipping tea. For a moment, he reels, trying to place them – and then recognizes Shaak Ti.

Sort of.

Ben has never before seen Shaak Ti out of traditional Jedi robes, and he’s almost as embarrassed as he would be if he walked in to find her naked. In place of her robes, she is garbed in traditional Shili style, which meant a lot of tight-laced leather and beadwork. Her headdress had been replaced with red plated leather, gilded with gold, and around her neck she wore a torc of _akul_ teeth, polished and painted blue at the bases. Red braces on her arms matched the wraps around her montrals, and she wore a belt of shining white woven fibers, mimicking the pattern of the turu-grass of her home planet. It was a shocking display from a typically reserved Jedi.

“Master Ti?” Ben almost stammered, catching her watching his play of expression with amused silver eyes.

“I have been removed from the Council of Reconciliation and am currently on probation as a Jedi Master.” She answers some, and only some, of his multitude of unarticulated questions, with a cool, almost playful tone.

Ben startles again, appalled, wondering what could possibly warrant such severe punishment for a woman who was the _embodiment_ of a Jedi.

“Why?” He inquires. “If I may ask?”

She lifts her chin, defiance glittering in her eyes, the hunt sharp on her teeth, just as much a warning display as her clothing was. “Because I stood before the Council and declared Shmi Skywalker to be my Padawan Learner.”

Ben sucks in a breath, forcing himself not to give in to that first surge of rage. “And for that, they removed you from a position you well earned and called into question your capabilities as a Jedi Master?”

“I hardly expected them to be pleased.” Shaak muses.

“Pleased.” Ben repeats flatly. “Shaak, half your padawans were full-fledged Knights before they came to you. How dare they-“

“Dare?” Shaak laughs. “They are the _High Council of the Jedi Order_ , and how do you know about my Learners?”

Ben rolls his eyes. “You’re a Shadow Master, Shaak Ti. One learns to recognize the like.”

By the Clone Wars, Shaak Ti had been even more than that. She had been _the_ Master of Shadows, the Head of the Council of Reconciliation, and held one of the permanent seats on the Jedi High Council. She had been one of the greatest training masters the Order had ever seen, and she survived Order 66, though Ben never knew how. He’d only known she’d survived when he heard how she died.

“Perhaps.” She accedes, though her silver gaze tells him she doesn’t quite believe him. “Thank you, Ben, for your defense.” She tips her head.

“For what it’s worth.” Ben murmurs, and her lips twitch again, well aware of his unpopularity. Infamy, even.

“For what it’s worth.” She agrees humorously, and then it fades from her face. “I believe it is only a show. They’re testing my resolve. It hurts, I suppose, but I can survive this pain. I just…” She frowns, anger shining through. “What if it is not a test? What if they refuse my reinstatement until I agree to let her go?”

“Would you let her go?” Ben inquires.

“I don’t know that I could leave the Order for her, Ben.” Shaak Ti says quietly, shaken. “The Jedi are my life.”

“Those are not your only options.” Ben offers, and earns her piqued interest. It is always slightly unsettling, to have the full attention of a togruta. It reminds you that they are hunters, and they hunt worse beasts than you could ever be. Shaak’s torc of _Akul_ fangs are proof enough of that.

“You are a Jedi worthy of everything it means to be a Jedi, Shaak Ti. If they shun you in this temple, find another. Start a new one. Revive an old one.”

She leans back, surprised, and then her eyes narrow, contemplative, troubled. “You are a revolutionary, aren’t you?” She murmurs without bite.

“If it helps, I don’t think it will come to that.” Ben adds with a sly, supportive smile.

“Oh?” Her eyes gleam. “I suppose there are other machinations of yours in the works?”

“You could suppose.” Ben replies wittily, but he reaches out to clasp her hand. As ever, she hesitates at first, as most Jedi do, and then clasps his hand in return.

“Any hints?” She inquires. “Or am I and my padawan to wait in suspense?”

“Suspend away, I’m afraid.” Ben replies airily. “It’s rather dependent on the efforts of others.”

“I take that to mean its dependent on Obi-Wan, as no one else in the temple is inclined to give you time of day.” Shaak Ti says.

“What’s dependent on me?” Obi-Wan asks nervously, stepping through the door and startling at Shaak Ti’s appearance.

“Don’t pressure him.” Ben mutters quietly.

“You do that enough for all of us.” Shaak Ti whispers back before turning a slightly less sharp smile on the red-haired boy. “Your masters ability to escort me to lunch. If you’re agreeable to changing up your schedule?” She inquires.

Obi-Wan hesitates, glancing between the two of them sitting on the couch, and reddens. Ben tips his gaze up and sighs, knowing exactly what thought just crossed his padawans mind. “Um. No, yes, I mean, yes. Lunch.” Obi-Wan stutters out. “Um, do – I should go-“

“With us.” Ben says. Obi-Wan narrows one eye at him, and slowly nods at his direction.

“With you. Yes.”

Shaak Ti laughs lightly to herself, one hand lifted to gracefully hide her grin.

~*~

They catch Shmi in the dining hall and she agrees to linger in order to spend time with them, fetching herself another glass of juice. Neon yellow juice. Which bubbles.

“What _is_ that?” Obi-Wan asks.

“You are asking as if I would know.” Shmi replies lightly, taking a sip. She is not wearing a braid, but her dark hair is pulled up in a bun, save the lock behind her ear which _should_ _be_ a braid and instead falls in a loose curl. She has also exchanged her simple gray dresses and mechanics aprons for yellow and white tunics, with red-brown leggings. Like Shaak Ti, her defiance is quiet, but obvious for all to see.

Anakin runs around the table to Obi-Wan and lifts his hands, and the padawan obliges him without thinking, pulling the three-probably-four year old into his lap. Shmi wasn’t certain of the day Anakin was born, and slaves deliberately did not track a young child’s age. Tatooine law said a child followed the mother until it was five years old, unless the mother died. Slave children, therefor, took a very long time to reach five standard.

“But you’re _drinking_ it.” Obi-Wan points out, stealing a berry off his masters tray and giving it to Anakin, who grinned in delight and blinked innocently back at Ben’s suspicious glance.

“It was recommended to me.” Shmi replies, smile playing on her lips in spite of the less than friendly looks they were receiving. If Jedi thought a life-long slave would be cowed by a cold-shoulder, they had much to learn of perseverance. The looks Shaak Ti received were of a very different sort – surprise, at first, as always, and then confusion, followed by anger or uncertainty. It is one thing to disdain and be resentful of a stranger taking a place they feel she does not deserve, and another to acknowledge a renowned and well-respected Jedi Master to be breaking from the mold.

Ben himself was receiving a renewal of dirty looks, as if this were his fault simply by association. As ever, he smiled pleasantly back at the worst offenders until they looked away.

Mace Windu was grinding his teeth so hard he wouldn’t even look at Ben. Or Shaak Ti.

But perhaps that is not all to do with Shaak. The Jedi had woken this morning to the pervasive sense that something was not right, and that was not the result of one or two out-of-the-norm Jedi Masters.

There is a soft tug in the Force, and everyone in the Dining Hall looks up as a knight wearing the tabard of a Council Attendant runs into the room. They pause just inside the doorway and catch their breath. “Attention, your attention please!” They call out, voice smooth and clear and carrying well. Even the initiates at the tables are silent.

“Three hours ago, Rilor 4 experienced a cataclysmic seismic event.” The knight announces into the hush. “We have ninety hours to evacuate eighty-thousand refugees and it’s a six hour journey there. All Knights and Senior Padawans, report to the flight bays for immediate assignment to assist in the evacuation. All junior padawans report to the Quartermasters division to assist in logistic supply. All Masters, please check your comms, you will be receiving individual assignments shortly.”

The knight scanned the room as they finished speaking, crèchemasters already preparing to reign in their initiates in order to keep the clans out of the way.

“Eighty-thousand?” A corellian master inquires, tacitly aware of the younger beings in attendance. He doesn’t say that eighty-thousand people is still less than a third of the population of Rilor 4.

The knight swallows tightly. “A conservative estimate.” They reply. “But yes. Just eighty-thousand.”

They leave, and the Jedi start moving with economical reserve and tight focus, leaving their trays on the table and streaming from the room with quick efficiency.

“I would be of more use as a mechanic.” Shmi says, and Shaak Ti is already nodding.

“Go.” The togruta tells her. “They could use your skills right now.” Her eyes meet Ben’s, and they lock, staring at each other until their comm-links finally chime and the anticipation, the burning _what-do-I-do-for-I-need-to-do-_ something finally breaking as answers were forthcoming.

Shaak Ti reads quicker. “I’m to take charge of a group of senior padawans assisting in the evacuation.” She says aloud, already rising.

“I’m to report to the Senate and represent the petitions for assistance.” Ben frowns, wondering how he received such an assignment when Adi Gallia wanted to disembowel him, if their last challenge match was any indication.

“I pity the senators.” Shaak Ti offers, and then slips into the throng, making her way out.

Ben snorts and turns to his padawan, who’s rising from his seat, Anakin in his arms. “Follow Shaak Ti. There’s an initiate clan just by the entrance, they’ll look after Anakin.”

“On it, master.” Obi-Wan replies, ducking between two knights and weaving through the throng, still small enough to slip through the press of people with ease. Ben himself must wait for the opportunity to stand to arise, and slip in where space is made for him.


	2. Chapter 2

The Chief Mechanic on deck lights up with relief when Shmi pushes her way through the growing mass of knights and padawans.

“We need every hand we’ve got. If you can get it flight-worthy, it goes.” They barked.

“Even all our transports could not take eighty-thousand people.” Shmi replies, following in the Chief’s shadow as they made their way to the tool depot.

“The Corellian Temple is sending their fleet. They have larger transports than we do, but far fewer numbers. Half our pilots are being sent just to meet the demand.” Chief replies, ordering a pair of astromechs, a service droid, and one crawler unit to stick with Shmi. “Hopefully we’ll receive some back-up once the Senate team gets through the subcommittees, but we can’t count on it and we can’t wait for it. Politicians take too much kriffing time.”

Shmi slides on an apron, takes a toolbelt, and the crawler unit lifts a crate of common parts.

“Wait!” Chief grabs her arm and points to two junior mechanics. “Take them too, they need supervision still and you’re one of the best.”

Shmi nods and whistles for the R1 astromech unit to start scanning the vessels on the dock she’s been assigned.

She approached the two junior mechanics herself. Both of them look overwhelmed by the prospect of what’s being asked of them today. “Come with me, do as I tell you, and worry about nothing else.” She tells them, calm but firm.

“But look at-“

“Come with me, do as I tell you, and worry about nothing else.” Shmi repeats, letting her words sink into the air, reaching out with her own certainty as she has done a hundred times for new and nervous slaves who were going to get themselves hurt. Both junior mechanics blink and refocus on her.

“Yes ma’am.” They nod.

They get to work.

~*~

“The call for aid came directly from Jedi to Jedi, which allowed us to respond quickly and freely, however;” Adi Gallia, despite her status as Knight, briefed the collective of Masters assigned to liase with the Senate regarding the crisis if Rilor 4. “That also means it is our responsibility to present the matter to the Senate and champion the petitions for further response. As much as we can do as Jedi, there is still much that is beyond our capabilities, and the refugees are going to need far more support than we alone can offer. Now, there are a dozen committees and subcommittees to be informed and addressed regarding this incident. Each of you will be assigned a partner and a directive, over which there will be no argument. We do not have _time_.” She glares over the lot of them. “Keep your comm-links open, communicate when you have met with _success_ , and do not promise anything to anyone that you cannot personally guarantee. Favors are a dangerous game and the Jedi are not _playing_. You are all here because you are considered the most devious and stubborn Masters the Order has to offer. We need the best and worst of that today. Force be with us.”

She’ll be made master long before her first padawan is knighted, Ben knows, and in this moment he can see why, her presence a blazing corona around her in the Force.

But all the respect in the world does not stop him from giving her the stink eye when she assigns him to Qui-Gon Jinn.

Qui-Gon merely frowns pensively at the assignment, looking aloof, which could not tell Ben more clearly that he was uncomfortable.

They are assigned the task of finding accommodations for all the displaced refugees, and head out immediately.

“Would you like to start with Committee for Interspecies Relations, the Subcommittee for Displaced Persons, or the Office of Population Affairs?” Qui-Gon inquires, attempting to sound polite and instead coming across as slightly condescending.

To be fair, the man was raised among an avian species prior to the Temple crèche, and pride and vanity were epitome cultural traits of most avian species. The behavior was not meant to seem as offensive as it was.

Ben mouths ‘Population Affairs’ back to himself in bafflement, and then remembers that there were several hundred systems who petitioned the Republic for assistance in Colony Propagation and several Boards which existed regarding guidelines for population density and sustainment. Those, he has dealt with directly, and the Office of Population Affairs must be their overseer.

“I would rather spin a wheel than climb up and down ladders.” Ben replies cryptically, earning a frown. A frown, and an irritated look.

It’s a very long walk, getting anywhere in the Senate Building, which may as well have been its own city.

“Is your disagreement with me entirely due to the fact that I refused to take Obi-Wan Kenobi as my padawan?” Qui-Gon finally asks, biting the question out. “Your reaction seems entirely disproportionate given that my refusal allowed the boy to become your student.”

_Ah_ , Ben thinks, _he’s finally dared to ask me directly_. Ben knew from personal experience that Qui-Gon Jinn could spend _years_ dancing around to avoid situations he found uncomfortable, though he had no compunction whatsoever about dragging out or diving into the discomfort of others.

“My disagreement with you,” Ben starts, voice soft and cold and tempering a lifetime of bitterness. “has a little to do with the manner in which you publicly and savagely humiliated a child in the course of you refusing him as your padawan, yes.” Ben takes a deep inhale and stops walking, turning on Qui-Gon in the empty corridor. “But my real _disagreement with you_ , as you call it, has much more to do with how you prove utterly inept in accepting the fact that Xanatos du Crion made his own choices.”

Qui-Gon reels back as if struck, and then his ice-blue eyes blaze angrily.

“That affair is none of your business-“ Qui-Gon snarls, drawing himself up into a tower of rage.

“You think you are the only Master whose padawan Fell?” Ben snarls back, their stances bare inches apart and brimming with tightly-contained violence.

Qui-Gon scoffs. “If you think pretending to understand when there is no other record-“

“Shadows _take care_ of their own, just as Healers do, and always have done.” Ben hisses viciously, cutting him off again. “And believe me, Master Jinn, we Fall far more often.”

Ben is not and was not a Shadow, but the path he walked was far closer to theirs than it ever was to Qui-Gon Jinns. All the High Generals of the GAR took steps into the darker halves of themselves, and the galaxy, and learned things only Shadows used to know. Claiming to have walked the path of Shadows is just the story he has to tell to be believed.

And there was a truth in that statement that so many Jedi simply did not know. Healers Fell far more often than any other Jedi. They witnessed too much suffering and failure and tried so hard to save, that they reached and reached for the ability, for the power, and their desperation led them into Darkness. And that was true long before the Clone Wars.

Anakin’s was not the only Fall. His was just the one that cut the deepest and never stopped bleeding, and the whole galaxy suffered for it.

Dooku, Pong Krell, Depa Billaba, Asajj Ventress, Quinlan Vos, Bariss Offee, the list went on. Some of them…recovered, though never completely, and some of them…

Qui-Gon sucks in through his nose and flinches a step back at that.

“Your own padawan?” Qui-Gon’s face is ashen, his voice appalled.

Ben swallows tightly, eyes burning. _No_ , his heart reminds him. _That I couldn’t do, and in failing to do, killed him far more cruelly than any strike of the blade, and unleashed a monster_.

“My own padawan.” Ben says anyway, to make a point, because what is his pain next to the lessons they need to learn? “My _first_ padawan. So if you think that his actions excuse you of your responsibilities, that your pain makes your cruelty acceptable, then you are _wrong_ , Qui-Gon Jinn, and far closer to following him than you recognize.”

“If I hadn’t brought him to Telos-“

“Yes.” Ben agrees sharply. “The Council should never have tested his loyalty by forcing him to confront his own father. But it was done, and is done. It is not for you to wallow over for the rest of time and neglect the duty you hold to this Order. It was a _lesson_ , Qui-Gon, not a life sentence.”

“He’s still out there.” Qui-Gon whispers hoarsely. “How can I – when he’s still out there. When I still dream about the hatred I saw in his eyes for me.”

“Do you know the greatest lie we were ever taught to believe, Jinn?” Ben asks, not waiting for an answer. “That Darkness is inescapable.”

Qui-Gon stares at him, stiff and looking trapped.

“It is a choice, and it has to be made.” Ben says unequivocally, unforgivingly. “And those who choose it, those who follow that path, they do not take a step and become lost forever. They make that choice, over and over again, to be cruel, to seek power, to hate and spread hatred. They make that choice every day and keep making it and that is what makes them Dark, _that_ is what makes them evil, and _that_ has _nothing to do with you_.”

“What would you have me do?” Jinn growls. “Forget? It was my failure that-“

“We are not given the luxury of forgetting.” Ben snaps, glowering up at the other man. “Not for a single moment of a single day. But you _move_ _on_. You step forward, and you choose to do better, to have compassion, to show discipline, to guide others into the light.”

“How?” Qui-Gon shakes his head, sounding defeated, and Ben has no pity, because Qui-Gon defeats himself.

“Take another Padawan Learner.” Ben says, turning and continuing through the Senate Building. They have work to do, and no time for such drama. “Try a girl this time.” Ben suggests.

“Girls are…strange and difficult.” Qui-Gon mutters.

“Exactly.” Ben retorts.


	3. Chapter 3

Rilor 4 was an agricultural moon in the Corellian Sector. It had level landmasses, massive subterranean oceans, and three supervolcanoes. Typically a vibrant yellow-blue swirling with clouds, they could see from the transports the mass of grey-brown swallowing the eastern hemisphere, choking out the sun, and all life below.

Shaak Ti looked to the team of senior padawans and young knights assigned to her, all specially chosen for this assignment. One miralukan and two togruta knights, a mikkian padawan, and a selonian padawan, rare as it was to see one of their species in the Order. Each and every one came from a species with advanced capabilities of perception, honed by their Jedi training.

Shaak Ti had been mid-transport when her orders changed from supervising padawans on the loading platforms to assembling a search and rescue team. Probation or not, someone had realized that directing traffic was a waste of her capabilities, one that they could ill afford.

“We’ll be setting down on the very edge of the surveyors safety zone. Keep your wits about you, and never, ever let your partner out of your sight.” Shaak Ti informs them. “The first rule of rescue?” She asks.

“Never let yourself become another victim.” Knight Lysa, a fellow togruta huntress, replies.

“Communicate anything you think you see, anything you think you hear, or feel, or sense, before you act. We all need to be aware of each other. If we make mistakes, we have no back-up until the other teams have cleared their own search grids.”

~*~

“Padawan Kenobi!”

Obi-Wan flinches at the sudden sharp recall and stops in his tracks, turning to the speaker to find Master Rancisis hailing him. Obi-Wan trots over to the thisspiasian councilor.

“There you are, yes.” Master Rancisis nods, silver hair parting to reveal glimpses of his green-scaled skin. “Have you been given assignment yet?”

“No, Master.” Obi-Wan replies. “I was delayed and I’m still looking for Knight Twoseas.” Anakin had insisted he’d be able to help, and had argued that Obi-Wan should take him to his mom instead of leaving him with the initiate clan. Obi-Wan wasn’t used to having to tell Anakin _no_. He hadn’t cried, but the betrayed look on his face hurt worse.

“No matter. Knight Twoseas is your supervisor, I am hers. I want you to take charge of these two initiates.” Rancisis turns, pointing to one of several pairs of older initiates. “We were rather short-handed relying on junior padawans alone. The store-room is quite massive, after all, and this is a large undertaking.” His ‘s’s trill slightly over his reptilian tongue.

“Yes master.” Obi-Wan replies, hiding his uncertainty. He’s a _very_ junior padawan himself, having been apprenticed less than a year.

Master Rancisis studies him a moment, as if sensing his unease, reptilian eyes closing and opening slowly. “You have assisted your master in the direction of several initiate clans on their journeys to and from Ilum, have you not? This makes you uniquely experienced.” He states.

Obi-Wan blinks, never having thought of it like that. “Yes master.” He says more surely, and the thisspiasian master waves the two initiates over, a tiny Aleena boy and a tan-skinned devaronian girl with brown and white hair.

“Excellent.” He says. “Are your fingers quite dexterous?” He asks.

“Master?” Obi-Wan questions, puzzled.

“I’m assigning you and your partners to packing. The padawans on collection duty will bring their supplies to you, and you will ensure each bundle contains what it ought to.” He hands Obi-Wan a datapad, which appears from a hidden pocket on the masters draping robes. “There are standardized lists for such occurrences as this, but don’t hesitate to add a small thing or two. Refugees have so very little, after all.”

“Yes, master.” Obi-Wan replies, glancing at the datapad and pleased to find that it contains a map, marked with their designated duty area. “Thank you.” He bows.

“No, Padawan Kenobi, thank you. Now off with you, there is much we have yet to do.” Master Rancisis bows back.

Obi-Wan turns to his companions. “We have to go down two levels.” He says. “I’m Obi-Wan Kenobi.” He introduces himself.

“Initiate Tsui Choi.” The blue Aleena boy says formally, large green eyes very wide in his face. He’s perhaps half Obi-Wan’s size, but moves much faster than humans tended to, having no trouble at all keeping up.

“Sian Jeisel.” The devaronian girl says, more subdued than her companion. Her iridescent blue eyes stray enviously to Obi-Wan’s padawan braid, and Obi-Wan notices that her tan skin is covered in a fine layer of soft orange fur. Dark circles mark her brow where a male devaronian would have horns, and black freckles span the bridge of her cheeks and nose.

Properly introduced, they weave through the somewhat scrambled groups of other padawans, droids, and quartermaster’s assistants and make their way to the lift. Obi-Wan can hear the thunder of the Textile Printers all fired up, printing out simple clothes in standard sizes in massive quantities, and they pass lines of padawans squishing down and rolling up quilts and blankets from the collection.

“How’d you get your master to choose you?” Sian asks quietly, once the lift doors close between them and the noise. Tsui darts a glance up, but then looks away, still listening intently.

“I didn’t.” Obi-Wan replies honestly. “I’d given up, really. We weren’t even properly introduced and he just asked me.”

“Oh.” Sian Jeisel sighs, slumping a little.

“I tried to fight for it.” Obi-Wan says, understanding exactly how she and Choi must feel. “I even begged. I thought, if I try harder, if I do this, if I just keep asking, but…” He shakes his head. “None of that worked. There isn’t any _trick_ to it. It’s just…”

“The will of the Force?” She asks sourly. “There’s nothing wrong with me.” She says, far more certain of herself than Obi-Wan still sometimes felt. “But no knight even looks my way, and I’ve only got a few months left. I don’t know what else to do with my life, you know? Most initiates have an idea of which corps they’ll go into if they aren’t chosen, but I just- nothing _fits_! I’m _meant_ to be a Jedi.”

“Yeah.” Obi-Wan says, as the lift stops. They file out. “They assigned me to the Agricorps and I thought – I’m _not_ a farmer. I like plants well enough. My master has some really neat ones in our quarters, but…it just wasn’t _right_.”

“Then why does it happen?” She protests, following him closely, while Tsui Choi bounces just a pace ahead of them. “Don’t we deserve a real chance to try? Instead of just being shipped off? We can’t even go to the Almas Temple after they refuse us here, and the Almas will take older students! Just not _rejected_ ones.”

“It just happens.” Obi-Wan sighs. “You’re right, and I _agree_ with you. It isn’t fair. I can’t fix it for you, Sian, I’m sorry.”

She takes a deep breath, releasing some of her stress and attention. “No, _I’m_ sorry. I shouldn’t have just…thrown that at you.”

“I understand.” Obi-Wan shrugs. “And…it’s okay if you feel mad at me. It’s not personal. I just got _lucky_.” He offers her a sympathetic look, and her luminescent blue eyes shine a bit.

“Yeah.” She says. “Thanks. But still, regardless of what happens tomorrow,” She draws herself up, the Force almost shimmering in the air around her as she draws in her resolve, like rain in sunshine. “ today I’m still a Jedi, and we have work to do.” She bumps his shoulder companionably, and Obi-Wan nods, jostling her in return.


	4. Chapter 4

Ben inhales deeply, quelling frustration at the pantheon of aides and protocal droids and senatorial attendants that seem persistent in waylaying he and Qui-Gon, and chokes on a sudden waft of pungent rot.

Qui-Gon, trying to edge around a pair of particularly corpulent Houk, glances at him in concern. “Are you alright?”

Ben, however, has forced his lungs still and thrown all his focus into his shields, into blurring his own existence until he was nearly indistinguishable as an individual, a skill perfected during the Jedi Purges. His eyes scan the large indoor courtyard, full of milling delegates and representatives, and he catches a flash of familiar Nubian plum purple, trimmed in Republic blue.

Ben is looking right at him, and the Force whispers of nothing at all.

“Master Naasade?” Qui-Gon asks again, pointedly irritated at being ignored.

“Too much perfume in the room.” Ben murmurs, letting his gaze drift away, though all his instincts are screaming at him.

 _I am calm. I am not angry. I am not dangerous. I have no enemies here._ He lies to himself, painting layer over layer of falsehood around his mind until it was all anyone would be able to see.

Senator Palpatine turns, casting a seemingly curious glance around the room, and his gaze passes right over Ben Naasade. It lingers on Qui-Gon Jinn for a moment, and then dismisses him. The senator returns to his conversation.

Several Senators and Ambassadors try and gain their attention, as always when a Jedi lingers in these halls, and Qui-Gon grows increasingly frustrated at the way Ben seems to seamlessly avoid unwanted conversation while he himself cannot.

“Who are you looking for?” Qui-Gon growls irritably, extracting himself from another accostation.

“Friendly faces.”

Jinn growls wordlessly. “Senator Valorum is a friend of mine-“

“He represents Coruscant itself, and Corsucant has a dense enough population as it is.” Ben says dismissively, sounding harsher than he means to.

“Coruscant has resources.” Jinn protests.

“Tell that to those on the lower levels, which is where our refugees would end up.” Ben retorts, and finally spies a flash of metallic silver, tracking it until it resolves as bracers on the arms on a young man in stately grey, with subtle adornments of the deep Alderaani royal blue.

“There we are.” Ben murmurs, taking in thick dark hair and a smooth-shaven face, though possessed of the shadow of an easy smile. He looks different without his well-groomed goatee, and the strands of silver at his temples, but his eyes possess the same directness that Ben had always found reassuring.

“That’s a Senator’s aide, Master Naasade. He’ll hold very little influence if any.” Qui-Gon mutters.

“That is a member of the Royal House of Alderaan, Master Jinn, and I have more interest in speaking with Alderaan’s Queen than with its Representative.”

“That is not what we have been tasked to do!” Jinn protests, but doesn’t manage to actually lay a hand on Naasade to stop him as he eels through the crowd like a brush of wind.

“Lord Organa.” Ben calls softly, and the young man turns, surprised, and surprised again to see a Jedi asking for him. Ben holds lifts both his palms upwards and bows his head in the traditional Alderaani manner, and Bail repeats the gesture.

“I’m not sure we’ve ever been introduced, Master Jedi, though if we have, I apologize for my lapse.” The young man says easily, one brow slightly lifted in puzzled amusement at his own expense.

“Master Ben Naasade, and my counterpart Qui-Gon Jinn.” Ben introduces as the other Jedi strides up behind him in a huff, “May we speak with you?”

“If this is about matters of the Senate, I’m afraid I don’t actually hold a seat yet-“

“Not at all.” Ben shakes his head. “I’m rather more interested in speaking directly with Alderaan, as opposed to the Senate.”

Bail tilts his head, intrigued, and glances around. There are several eavesdroppers, and he catches Ben’s eye with a silent question.

“It’s not a private matter, we’ll be approaching many worlds today, I’m afraid.” Ben says, Qui-Gon fuming in confusion to his left. “Early this morning Rilor 4 experienced a globally catastrophic event, and the Jedi are responding to their plight at this very moment. I would like to address Alderaan on the possibility of taking in as many as six-thousand refugees – not through any subcommittee action.” Ben lifts a hand, stalling Bail’s immediate response. “But as a request from the Jedi Order directly to the Queen of Alderaan. The Jedi ourselves cannot provide any reparations if Alderaan were to agree, and as of yet we simply do not know if the Republic will reimburse those who offer sanctuary either.”

Bail closes his mouth, dark eyes serious as he considers what has just been said. “Six thousand of how many?” He inquires after a moment, voice solemn.

“Initial estimates were stated at eighty-thousand potential refugees.” Qui-Gon offers, attempting to feel useful and finally catching on to the plot.

“Eighty-thousand?” Bail repeats softly. “You could ask the Queen to accept more. Eight-thousand, at least. Alderaan has the resources.”

“With no recompense, I would relieved if _six_ -thousand were accounted for. My second request is more personal, Lord Organa. I’d like to ask you to assist my partner and I in finding and convincing other suitable and agreeable worlds to take in our refugees. I understand that this puts your own name and position on the line, however-“

“I accept.” Bail says, without hesitation, and Ben smiles fondly. Bail had never hesitated to do his part, regardless of what it might cost him. Christophsis came to mind.

“I am most grateful, Lord Organa.” Ben bows.

“Follow me to my office,” Bail requests, gesturing a hand in guidance. “We can call the Queen directly from there.”

Qui-Gon lifts a brow at that, but Bail, being Bail, doesn’t blush. Neither a Senators aide, nor a junior member of the Royal House should have a direct line to the Queen. Her lover, however…

~*~

“Master Ti!” her mikkian padawan calls out, resolving out of the ash-laden dust with a corellian woman slung across her back. Knight Lysa, her partner, becomes visible just behind her, cradling two younglings.

All of her searchers are caked in ash and dust, their rebreather masks going through filters rapidly. Somak, the selonian padawan, has it the worst. It clings to her fur in heavy clumps, and she has the task of sometimes literally burrowing someone out. The ground shakes warningly every few minutes, and Ti’s montrals ache from the unusual atmospheric charge created by the distant eruption.

Great cracks often crumble away into massive ravines or sinkholes, and only through use of the Force have they avoided more losses today, sometimes being forced to leap to safety when stable ground suddenly dissolved. They’ve watched half a village shatter and collapse already, buildings folding in on themselves and sliding into the earth in haze of dust and roaring sound. Knight Dyr, her other togruta, is serving as their medic, but if they don’t leave soon, some of their rescued farmers are going to be beyond saving.

“Rescue Team nine-two, can you hear me?”

“Loud and clear, Control.” Shaak replies through her comm, waving the mikkian padawan closer in.

“We’re building up to a second eruption. You’re too far out. Pull back.” Control orders.

“We’re still finding survivors.” Shaak protests. They’ve only been on the ground for –she checks her comm – twenty hours. They should have had three times that amount. They _needed_ three times that.

“You have to pull back.” Control repeats, sounding stressed. “You’re in the red zone. There’s too much activity in that area and if you’re there when the second eruption hits….we can’t save all of them.” The knight on the other end whispers. “Please pull back.” They repeat again.

Shaak Ti grits her teeth, a high warning trill singing in the back of her throat, but acknowledges the command.

“Everyone back to the transport.” Shaak Ti orders over her comms. “Now.”

“I’ve got someone down here.” Padawan Somak reports. “Give me a few more minutes, Master.”

“Knight Tor’tulu, confirm Padawan Somak’s report.” Shaak Ti calls.

“We can sense two survivors in the basement beneath us. The structure is unstable, but I’m holding it in place. We’ll have them out shortly. Please give us time.” The miralukan knight responds.

“Be swift.” Shaak Ti acknowledges, kneeling to help Knight Dyr move one of their more critical patients onto a gurney and into the transport. They’ll be crowded, having found stragglers coming in from a village the initial survey had reported lost, but Shaak Ti will get them all to fit.

She’s not leaving anyone behind that she doesn’t absolutely have to.


	5. Chapter 5

“…blanket, towels, toiletries, canteen, first aid kit…sabacc cards?” Obi-Wan touches the last item and glances at Choi, who peers across at him with a bland smile, and drops a hover-ball into a different pack.

 _Little things_ , Master Rancisis had said. Obi-Wan nods at Choi, who blinks serenely back and continues his work.  Obi-Wan finishes checking over the pack and marks it complete, moving it to the proper packing pallet. After a day and a half, he’s having trouble distinguishing one task from another. They’d even slept down here last night, rations distributed by kitchen droids and a few younger initiates.

“How are you doing, Jeisel?” He calls.

“First Level just brought down more blankets, and we have two-hundred-and-thirteen complete packs!” She shouts back, climbing over stacks of supplies. “I already sent the first pallet up to the flight decks. We’re beating Padawan Muln’s team for efficiency.” She crows. “Engineer up top says it might be awhile before all this gear actually goes anywhere, though. Even after we complete the rescue, they still don’t know where all our refugees are going.”

“My master’s working on that.” Obi-Wan says. “Well, a _lot_ of Jedi are working on that.” He corrects. He hasn’t heard from his master since yesterday, but he’s getting better at reaching out through their bond, and can feel a sense of grim accomplishment.

“Yeah, but…” She frowns, turning to face him. “They don’t know where they’re _going_.” She says with emphasis. “Their entire lives are just…gone. We’re helping them, but…all those people have to start over, and they’re being split up, and…it’s a lot. They’re relying on us, on the Jedi to help them, and I feel…” She sighs, blue eyes troubled. “Is it enough? What we do?”

“We do what we can.” Obi-Wan says, somewhat helplessly. “Sometimes that’s all there is.”

“But…”

“Yeah.” Obi-Wan agrees. “It doesn’t feel like enough.”

“So what do we do?” She asks, demanding, looking at him like he held the answers, a boy barely a year older than her. It was a lot of pressure to put on him, he thought, when half the time he barely knew what _he_ was doing.

Obi-Wan takes a minute to think about it, checking over another pack, marking it off on the datapad he’s been given. “We do what we can.” He repeats. “And I know that doesn’t feel like a lot, but, but we’re Learners for a reason, Jeisel. If what we can do isn’t good enough, then we learn to do better, to do more. Find a new skill, train harder, study longer.”

“ _You’re_ a Learner,” She points out. “I’m just…me. I’m an initiate, and only barely that. Next month I might be a farmer, or a mechanic, or….whatever’s left.”

“You’ll be no less what you are next month than who you are today, Sian Jeisel.” Obi-Wan tells her, something his master often told him. “But you can be more, and whether that’s as a Jedi, or a pilot, or a healer, that doesn’t matter. You’re still capable. You’re still _you_.”

She stares at him, her luminescent blue eyes bright against her face. “You’re pretty smart.” She says bluntly.

“I…don’t really get that a lot. Thank you.” Obi-Wan says.

She looks down at the packs, her mouth a twisted line. She takes a deep breath and sighs. “Do what I can.” She mutters. “Okay. I can do this. It’ll be enough.”

Obi-Wan smiles, turning away so she doesn’t think he’s laughing at her. Choi skips over to him and holds something up. Obi-Wan frowns at it.

“What is that?” He asks the Aleen boy, eyeing the purple and bronze contraption warily.

“I dunno.” He shrugs, peering up at Obi-Wan with slightly disconcerting green eyes. “Should I give it to someone?”

“I – I have no idea.” Obi-Wan stutters.

Choi frowns at him. “How come you can’t answer the easy questions?” He pouts.

~*~

“ _Dai Karabbac_!”

Ben flinches at the grating cry, dropping into a defensive stance, only for Lij Kummar to appear, gracelessly shoving a poor protocol droid out of her way, flanked on either side by robed Kaleesh shamans. Her eyes gleam in approval at his stance, and he rights himself, relaxing.

“Friend of yours?” Qui-Gon murmurs, while Bail Organa smiles tightly at the intimidating new arrival. Bail looks slightly rumpled today, caught up enough in their mission that he fell asleep at his desk the night before. Ben envies him, as his rest comprised of five hours in a meditative trance sitting on a bench. He and Qui-Gon had sat down for just a few minutes, having been championing their cause through dozens of offices, and next thing he knew, Qui-Gon had been tipped back against the wall dead asleep.

To be fair, they passed Kit Fisto asleep on his feet three hours ago, just leaning against the wall and started a conversation before realizing the master’s condition.

“Define friend.” Ben mutters, and then corrects himself. “A friend of my padawans.”

Qui-Gon lifts a brow, and Bail, from the corner of his eye, looks intrigued.

“ _Khagan_ Lij Kummar.” Ben nods in greeting, eyeing the poorly disguised – if bladeless – spear in her hand, adorned to seem ceremonial, but still likely solid enough to hurt if she started swinging it. Her green head-dress of scarves compliment her eyes, and a delicately spun shawl of the same color drapes over her huntress-warrior garb. “May I introduce Jedi Master Qui-Gon Jinn, and Lord Bail Organa of the Royal House of Alderaan. I wasn’t aware you were here?” He questions. He _had_ been aware that Kalee petitioned for entry into the Republic (and further aware that they did so not for resources so much as for the platform in which to confront and harass the Trade Federation) but the _Khagan’s_ had been staying out of the political mire.

“Shaman San Luurur, now _Ambassador_ San Luurur is petitioning for our system.” She says. “I am only here to support her. I much prefer a real battlefield, though I was curious to see where our Jedi came from.”

“Well, not from here.” Ben says amusingly, gesturing to the Senate Building around them. “The Temple is not distant, however.”

“There is too much life on this planet.” She comments, her voice grating with disproval. “And not enough. I do not like it.”

Considering she was raised in the grasslands and rainforests of Kalee, Ben did not think she would. “You might like the Temple gardens, though there is nothing to hunt.”

“A shame.” She tips her head, her spear moving with the motion. The two shamans escorting her share an amused glance. “Is your Padawan here?” She inquires. “Jai Sheelal would much like for me to see how he fares.”

Ben feels a very odd sense of displacement at that comment, blinking stupidly for a moment.

“No, he’s at the Temple. We’re on assignment, actually.” Ben says. “Have you heard of the crisis on Rilor 4?” By now most of the Senate building was abuzz with it, rumors swirling around all the Jedi hustling about.

“The planet is…breaking.” She says slowly. “This I have heard. This is a Jedi affair?”

“We’re rescuing any survivors we can before the surface becomes inhospitable.” Ben explains. “Though my task is to find somewhere for them to live once we’ve rescued them.”

“They cannot simply move and start a new colony?” She inquires.

“They have no resources to do so.” Ben says. “As it was, Rilor 4 was a vital agricultural colony. The Correlian system is going to suffer greatly for this loss.”

“I have been learning of Corellia.” Lij Kummar states, her clawed fingers tapping idly on her staff. “They are renowned for their pilots and mechanics are they not? They are considered superior space travelers.”

“Yes.” Ben replies, peering at her reptilian eyes and wondering what she’s thinking.

“How many are…re-fu-gees.” She practices the word, and it comes off her tongue slightly flawed, too rough and short.

“Eighty-thousand, though we seem to have found placement for nearly thirty-thousand of that.”

Lij Kummar makes a soft sort of rumbling sound, and turns to her shamans. For a whispered conversation, the Kaleesh are still rather loud, but their language is unintelligible to all but a few supremely well-updated protocol droids.

“Twenty-thousand.” Lij Kummar states, turning back to them.

“Pardon?” Qui-Gon inquires, brow deeply furrowed.

“We will take twenty-thousand.” She states more clearly, and Ben can feel the grin she holds behind the mask, her eyes alight. “The Kaleesh have many worlds now, and not so many people. We have many new technologies also that are strange to us. We will take twenty-thousand _re-fu-gees_ if Corellia will teach us of our new vessels and space stations. Kaleesh with thrive, and Corellia will thrive. This is a deal we will make.”

“Ah…I see.” Qui-Gon states, clearly taken off-guard.

“Are you certain your infrastructure can support such a sudden influx?” Ben inquires. “I appreciate your generosity, but I don’t want to tip the balance of your system unfavorably.”

Lij Kummar waves a hand dismissively. “Be less cautious, _Dai Karabbac_. The Huk have left behind many empty villages the Kaleesh cannot fill. We are many less now than we were before the Huk War. Entire generations have been lost.” She says, making a gesture to her brow in remembrance, her shamans echoing the motion. “Farmlands too have been growing wild, abandoned. Our people will make each other stronger. This is _my_ victory.”

One shaman huffs a sound that might be a laugh, and Lij Kummar shoots a look at him.

“ _Khagan_ Jai Sheelal will have much catching up to do.” The shaman rasps quietly, purely amused. “To be once more worthy of you.”

Lij Kummar clucks her tongue. “My heart-of-hearts will find a way, I’m sure.”

“Preferably without starting another war?” Ben inquires hopefully.

“Perhaps.” She replies, filled with amusement.

There are more details to discuss, and Bail takes over explaining to one of her shaman advisors how to best handle the situation, offering to introduce her and Ambassador San Luurur to their Corellian counterparts.

“That was…remarkably fortuitous.” Qui-Gon comments, a hint of suspicion in his voice.

“The Force provides.” Ben replies lightly, feeling far less conflicted about the matter with the Force whispering in his ear and his vision flickering of star-like flowers blooming in yellow clay. “Though I think I’d hesitate to experience the cultural blending of Kalee warrior mysticism and Corellian…well… _Corellian_.”

Qui-Gon’s lips part, and his brows draw tightly together in bemusement. “Ah…yes. That’s sure to be…”

There is no diplomatic phrase for that. “Terrifying?”

Qui-Gon gives him a surprised look. “I was going to say ‘entertaining’.”


	6. Chapter 6

“We’re losing the continent.” A surveyor whispers hopelessly. Everyone in the Crisis Command Center watches the predictive program extrapolate the wave that is going to swallow the ground under their feet. Already the shaking is a nonstop presence, which rolls in waves.

Plo Koon gathers himself, feeling fear ripple out from the population as the world itself sighs in relief, even as it’s ripped apart. Natural disasters are not evil, they simply _are_.

“Order all transports to prepare for final evacuation.” Plo orders, letting nothing of his own painful sense of how much they could still do waver in his voice. They did not have the time. They did not have the means.

 _We were not enough_.

“Sir?” One knight hesitates. “Sir, there’s still fifteen thousand on the ground and more coming-“

“Then it is all or nothing.” Plo says firmly. “We do what we can.” His vocoder crackles, and he steels himself, letting nothing but certainty and serenity out into the Force. “Prepare for final evacuation.”

“Yes, Master Koon.” The knight nods, struggling to quell their own distress.

 _We do what we can_ , He thinks wearily.

Koon leaves the temporary shelter they’ve set up, reaching out with his senses and trying to parse pass the energy crackling through the ground.

“Master Ti!” He calls out, more in the Force than anything else, as she stumbles out of her own transport, packed with survivors and being swarmed by medics. She hesitates, her first instinct to guide those she has saved, but she challenges herself to trust the medics and the rest of her team and moves towards him.

“Master Koon?” She inquires, every inch of her the same shade of ashen-brown, her teeth and eyes gleaming. He’d caught a glimpse of her this morning, in her full huntress regalia, and had been admirous of her courage and defiance in the face of an appalling judgement by his fellow councilors.

But then, he had never been a strict traditionalist himself.

“Gather any other master you can find.” He says quietly, just for the two of them. Her eyes narrow and she tips her head thoughtfully, asking without asking. “We’re going to form a perimeter, as wide as we can.” He says. “And we are going to _hold_ this ground. For as long as is possible.”

“The final evacuation?” She asks, gaze deeply troubled. She could feel the Force crying out, telling her there were more they could save, just as he could.

“We are losing the continent.” Koon admits gravely. “We are out of time.”

“Then we will hold.” She vows. “As long as we can.”

“Force be with you.” He bows his head. To his surprise, she reaches up and lays a hand on his cheek, and he can feel her sorrow and understanding through that comforting touch.

“Force be with us all.” She murmurs, and then she is off at a Force-enhanced run, seeking out the other masters through the haze and confusion of the thousands crowding the landing pads.

Koon sighs deeply, and himself turns to the task.

~*~

“You saved our lives there, ma’am.” The pilot wipes sweat off his brow as Shmi emerges from the maintenance hatch. She crawls out, fluid staining her hands and several bruises on her side and on her head, and glowers at him.

“Get a different pilot.” She orders. “You’ve overheated the power-regulators twice. If you do it a third time, they will blow, and all of us will die. You should not have claimed to know how to handle a craft you were not trained to fly.”

“Ma’am, now hold on!” He protests, and Shmi crosses her arms. “You don’t understand-“

“Understand this.” She cuts him off. “This vessel is capable of carrying two thousand souls and is expected on the planet below _immediately_ , and if we fail, they die. If you overheat the power-regulators, they die. If you blow the thruster relay again, we’ll fail to break atmosphere, and they’ll die. You are unfit.”

He swallows. He’s not a young pilot, cocksure of himself, but he’s clearly out of his league.

“I’m all we’ve got.” He says helplessly. “I had training on the old Besh-Nines, and this seemed close enough. There just weren’t enough pilots.”

Shmi sighs deeply and wipes sweat off her neck, smearing more grease. She’d been sent on one of the last transports from the Temple to ensure that those space-birds they scraped into flying stayed in the air long enough to be of use and had ended up jumping from ship to ship as failures were suffered and repaired, and somehow ended up in charge when the Chief Mechanic for this convoy failed to join the rendezvous, his craft having dropped out of hyperspace well before reaching the Rilor system. Mechanics on other vessels started reporting to her when she answered a question no one else could, and now…

Her two junior mechanics were currently on the ground, checking over those transports before they lifted after one of the first runs had gone catastrophically wrong, blowing a propulsion engine on lift-off. One astromech had been left on the last frigate, supplanting the faulty navigation system, and the other was now monitoring the power-flow of this vessel with excruciating care.

 _We do what we can_ , Shmi sighs. “ _I_ will pilot. You will co-pilot.”

“Are you sure?” He asks, nervous and ashamed. “I mean, you clearly have the mechanical knowledge, but…no disrespect, Jedi ma’am.”

“I am sure.” Shmi told him with a confidence she didn’t entirely feel. She had taken advantage of the simulators in the Temple, partly to learn and partly…she loved flying. Loved the feeling of taking off, even in simulation, and leaving worlds behind her, as easily as she wishes she could have left behind Tatooine, and her past, and all the horrors there.

But a simulator was not a ship, and no lives were in danger there.

“I am sure.” She repeats, praying to Ar-Amu for all of their sakes.

_Mother, bless me and let me lift them from despair, as I have been lifted._

She blinks back sudden tears and bites her tongue at the overwhelming swell of emotion that is the knowledge that she did not say goodbye to Anakin before she was swept up in the mission.

 _No despair, no fear, no doubt._ She scolds herself. _I am not leaving him today._

_I am not leaving anyone._

~*~

“Master Naasade!” Adi Gallia calls out, halting them from across the corridor and turning a dozen or so curious heads. The Jedi all move towards each other, and the milling individuals in between slightly part to make way for them, though a few offer them only disdainful looks as they go around.

“You could have commed.” Ben remarks, once they are at a polite distance.

“I wasn’t looking for you.” She says dismissively. “I’m looking for the Corellian Ambassador.”

“He’s with the Kaleesh Representatives, or he was this morning.” Ben replies. “They’ve agreed to take in as many as twenty-thousand refugees.”

Adi’s brow shoots up, impressed and assessive. Ben tips his head in acknowledgement of the accomplishment, but claims no credit.

“The final evacuation order has been given on Rilor 4.” Adi informs them.

“How many did we…?” Qui-Gon asks, looming over his shorter counterparts.

Adi swallows tightly, blue eyes shadowed. “From last report? Seventy-four thousand, give or take, _if_ we manage to get all of them off the landing platform that are already there.”

The three Jedi share a moment of quiet, and Ben closes his eyes briefly, shuddering for the memory of planets he’d seen decimated during the Clone Wars echoed here and now. When he opens them, both of the other two Jedi are frowning pensively at his reaction, but he offers them no answers.

“We’ve found placement for as many as sixty-two thousand.” Qui-Gon says stiffly. Adi looks between them again, doubly impressed.

“How did you get through to the committees that quickly?” She asks grudgingly.

“We didn’t.” Qui-Gon replies, drawling. “We bypassed them entirely.” He tilts his head towards Ben, so she knows who to blame. She narrows her eyes at him and Ben shoots Qui-Gon a dirty look. Apparently, the reservations Jinn held after their conversation yesterday were wearing off.

 _Or I was entirely dismissed_ , Ben thinks sourly, well aware of the stubbornness of Jedi Master Qui-Gon Jinn. _We do what we can_ , he sighs internally.

“Really.” She says flatly.

“I made no promises of recompense. These worlds have offered their aid to the refugees of Rilor 4 freely and in complete generosity. They are aware that they may receive nothing for this and they have given their pledge regardless.” Ben explains himself, feeling rather put upon to do so. “The committees can be addressed in time, but our need was immediate.”

“It seems some good can come of politicians after all.” Qui-Gon mutters ruefully. Knight Gallia glares at him, and he colors, shifting apologetically.

Ben lifts a brow, having been entirely unaware that Adi Gallia could cow the great Qui-Gon Jinn.

 _Interesting_.

~*~

“By all the gods….” Someone breathed out as the transport lifted, not waiting for the doors to close.

As the vessel rose above its own dust, full to the brim with shaken survivors and ragged-nerved rescuers, they could see-

An eye to the storm. A hundred small transports or more pulling up into clear air, and around the landing platforms, dotted like monoliths, dozens of Jedi Masters, proud and immovable, hands held open-palmed at their sides, facing the ground. You could almost see a glow around them, threaded between the masters, a hue of blue, or gold, or green, and beyond them, beyond that-

Destruction. The world was writhing and roaring, massive hills rolling like waves on water, great chunks of stone and earth lifting and collapsing, the main settlement swallowed in the turbulence, and a great black cloud in the distance, coming for all of them.

“I didn’t know Jedi could do that.” Someone whispered in awe. “Just…stop the world.”

“Not the whole world.” Someone else replied, watching ash and fire rise in the horizon.

The doors closed, catching the dust from the dozen other ships rising in their wake.

~*~

Obi-Wan, Tsui Choi, and Sian Jeisel stand out of the way, backs pressed to the pallets they’ve packed and brought up, as transports start trickling back into the Temple, spewing dust and ash laden Jedi and mechanics and medics.

It had been four whole days since the cry for help came from Rilor 4, and seemed at once both shorter and longer. The Temple felt eerily devoid, with so many absent, and it gave Obi-Wan the chills. He was not alone in that, and once the junior padawans were essentially finished and the Store Room greatly reduced, they had taken to engaging the Initiates to distract them from the bright absence of the Temple population, for which the crèchemasters were exceedingly grateful. They all ate together, at scheduled times, and even then it was painfully obvious how bereft they were with just the initiates, junior padawans, elders and a few scattered masters in residence.

So they were greatly relieved that the rescue teams were starting to trickle back in, though reports were…underwhelming. Seventy-one-thousand, four-hundred-and-eighty-nine survivors.

They saved as many as they could, it just…didn’t seem like enough.

What made it worse, so much worse, however, was that Obi-Wan could see how upset the returning Jedi were, or had been. Tears tracks were blatantly obvious on soot-stained faces.

One wookie had shuffled off the transport and over to the edge of the platform, jerkily trying to brush the clumps of dirt and clay from their fur with very little success.

“C’mon.” Obi-Wan says, nudging Sian Jeisel with an elbow and Tsui Choi with a hand. “Get them some water, or take them to the dining hall to get something to eat or – or anything.” Obi-Wan says.

“We’ll get in the way.” Tsui Choi points out. “They look…” He trails off glumly, the Force feeling heavy and oppressive, like rain clouds on an already damp day.

“That’s the point, I think.” Sian says, nodding and pushing away from the pallets. “They’ve done what they can for Rilor 4.” She says. “So we’ll do what we can for them.”

Tsui blinks and nods, brightening. “Okay. I understand.” He pulls the purple-and-bronze contraption from his belt, where it’s been tied for several days as they puzzled what function it possessed, and darted into the throng of weary knights and masters and Temple employees, holding it up and smiling widely, eyes bright and soothing. He earned puzzled looks and awkward smiles, a few knights prodding the object curiously and shaking their heads in bafflement, the tension bleeding away from their bodies for the distraction. Jeisel herself skipped over to a trio of shell-shocked looking knights and took the hands of two of them without warning, skipping them towards the lifts and herding the third knight with them, and a few more along the way.

Obi-Wan nods to himself and ducks around the milling personnel over to where the Wookie was standing, hands covering their face, upset spilling off them, uneasily released.

“Here,” Obi-Wan pulls a comb from his boot, where Choi had stuck it as an extra and Obi-Wan had forgotten about it.

He has a feeling that maybe there was the will of the Force in that. “I think I can help you.” He says, offering a smile.

 _We do what we can_. He thinks. _And this I can do_.


End file.
